Ransomed
by startraveller776
Summary: Erik told her to hide. Jane wishes she had listened. (Viking AU)


**Disclaimer:** No things owned but my sordid imagination.  
**Rating:** PG-13

**Summary:** Written for Next To Something for the Starfrost Exchange. I used her prompt: "Jane held as a prisoner."

This is a historical-ish/mythology-ish AU with rampant and unrepentant artistic license taken (including the unseemly conflation of mythology and Marvel canon). This is pre-"OMG WHAT DO YOU MEAN I'M A JÖTUN?"-Loki, but no less naughty.

My deepest apologies to native speakers of Icelandic. (Apparently you guys speak Old Norse and, therefore, have become the unwitting victims of my generous use of Google Translate.)

* * *

**Ransomed**

* * *

Erik told her to hide. Jane wishes she had listened.

A breeze, dense with algid condensation, glances across her bare skin, ruffling the threadbare shift she wears. They had, at least, afforded her with _that_ dignity, trifling though it is compared to rough cords binding her wrists. She stands erect, chin raised despite the distress thrumming in her chest. Cold mud squelches between her bare toes as she awaits her fate.

Broad-chested Norsemen walk past the prisoners, laughing, calling to one another in their lilting native tongue. The barbarians rose out of the mist an hour ago and swept through the defenseless village like a swarm of locusts, razing everything in their path. The siege was brief and devastating, and Jane despises how they bask in their spoils now—as if they were mere fishermen celebrating a fruitful catch.

The leader, a man with scarred, leathery skin and nearly as much ivory as russet in his braided beard, examines each of the captives. He issues a verdict with a simple nod, and families are torn apart as Norsemen drag the chosen off, screaming, wailing, into the sea toward the ships. Among the stolen, thrice as many are young women. Jane swallows back the bile crawling up her throat. She little wonders what befalls her kind in the hands of these savages.

Another travels the line of conquered villagers, close in the wake of the chief. This man is different, however. Tall and slender with glossy dark hair smoothed away from a beardless, angular face that seems more suited to elven folklore than that of a Norseman. He watches the proceedings with a mouth curved in amusement. No ordinary brute, Jane decides, but a lord by the casual nobility in his bearing and the strange leather armor he wears—black as night with snatches of green and gold. A cruel lord. One who finds entertainment in ruination. She hates him.

As though sensing her contempt, he glances at her and holds her gaze with sharp pale eyes. She ought to look down, to give proper deference to one who is so clearly royalty. She ought to make herself small—as invisible as possible—but her anger has recklessly exceeded her fear. And so she meets his bald stare with a rebellious clench of her jaw. His smile stretches wider, as if her insolence delights him. She loathes him all the more.

Several others are set free or hauled away before the nobleman and chief reach Jane. Erik, who has stood beside her in silence, speaks in the language of his homeland. She knows enough of her mentor's Scandinavian to understand that he begs not for his liberation, but for hers. Please, he says, she is still a child. She is of no use to you. Take me. _Take_ _me_. The chief looks her over with all the feeling of a man inspecting livestock. He is on the cusp of granting Erik's plea—

—until the lord leans forward and whispers in his ear. Foreboding blossoms in her belly as the taller man straightens and, grinning at her, presses a finger against his lips. It is then she realizes that no one has acknowledged his presence—not out of reverence or fear, but rather as though he does not exist. As though he is a malevolent spirit or an ethereal creature born out of legend. She tramps down the giddiness which threatens to overtake her. Jane is too practical to fall prey to these superstitions. The others are merely ignoring the lord for a reason she will yet discern. They _must_ be.

"You." The chief points at her. "You learn from him, já?" he asks in accented Saxon, turning his blunt-tipped finger on Erik.

She thinks of lying, of denying the years she spent under Erik's tutelage, learning to read and write. Learning the art of cartography. But the ghostly nobleman—how his gaze pierces her! As though he knows the truth and dares her to speak otherwise.

"Yes," she answers, understanding that this is not what seals her doom. It was assured, instead, when she first glared at him in impetuous defiance.

The chief nods. "Hún er nógu gömul."

"Nei! Vinsamlegast!" Erik falls to his knees and gropes at the commander's boots. "Ég mun gera allt! Ekki snerta stelpu!"

The bearded man recoils, gesturing for the others to pull Erik to his feet. "Taka hann líka."

Jane is spun around, grasped by the cords binding her wrists and yanked toward the shore. She looks back, relieved to see Erik following—though guilt twists in her gut like a fetid vine. She should not want her mentor to join her in whatever lies in wait for them over the sea, and yet she wants more not to face those unknown monstrosities alone. Beyond Erik, the commander continues his survey of the village folk. The lord, however, is gone, and Jane tells herself he has not vanished into nothingness, but has found some other diversion.

Icy water splashes against her legs when she is led into the sea, and she gasps. The tide rises and falls as she trails behind her captor until she is soaked to her waist. They approached the first longship, a meticulously crafted vessel with low sides that sweep up to high points at fore and aft. Unmanned oars, longer than a man is tall, rest in the water as though waiting patiently for the return of their masters. Jane looks up at the bow and shudders at the snarling dragon carved into the wood.

Without warning, a Norseman tosses her into the craft as if she is nothing more than a sack of goods. Another heaves her up and ushers her toward the aft where a handful of villagers crouch with terror so thick she can taste the brine of their sour sweat. She is afraid too, but giving into her dread serves no useful purpose.

Her escort pulls a dagger from his belt and points it at her. "You fight, you die, já?"

Jane nods, trying not to shiver as another breeze billows her sodden garments. He slices through the cords between her wrists and shoves a bundle of blue wool into her arms, topping it with a pair of worn leather shoes. He disappears, then, among his peers loading ill-gotten cargo onto the ship.

She is not so stubborn as to protest this strange sort of hospitality, and she hastily slips on the shoes, grateful for the pittance of warmth they afford her frozen toes. The bundle turns out to be a linen undergarment and an apron-like woolen overdress. She fumbles the unfamiliar clasps—oblong pewter broaches etched with intricate designs, tied together with strings of beads. Where do these attach? And is that thin strap of stamped leather a belt?

Her vision blurs with frustrated tears as she attempts to understand the workings of this unusual clothing. Odd that _this_ is what cracks her steely resolve. A worthless piece of fabric. She would laugh at her foolishness if her teeth weren't chattering.

The chief is back on the ship, shouting orders at his men as he stalks the length of it. The bustle of activity behind him turns into a furor as they make ready to sail. Storage boxes are closed, weapons and shields stowed, oars manned. Jane nearly gives into the panicked instinct to leap into the water and flee. Someone in the huddled group of captives begins weeping, expressing the sentiments that Jane quietly shares.

The chief advances on her, brows pinched in a frown as words leave his mouth in such rapid succession that she catches very little of his meaning. She shakes her head, steps back from him, and he grabs her wrist before she tumbles over her feet. He grinds out more incomprehensible commands, gesturing violently at the clothing in her hands. She cannot guess whether he wants her to dress or if he's offended she was given the gowns in the first place. When he produces a knife, she stutters an apology and offers him the garments. He throws them to the deck in agitation and wields his blade.

"No!"

But it is not her flesh which endures the pierce of his whetted metal. Instead, he shreds her damp shift, tears it from her body, and a wholly new terror turns her blood gelid. "You fight, you die," the other Norseman said. And fight, she will. She will strike at the man before her, kick, scream, claw. She will impel herself on his dagger before she allows him to rip her virtue from her.

"Þora ekki snerta mig!" she yells in broken Norse. Her cry draws the attention of the other sailors. Some look on with mild interest, others with lecherous grins as they take in the measure of her bare breasts and sex. She holds her arms against her sides, nails biting into the palms of her hands as she refuses to cover her nakedness.

The chief laughs, declares her a hidden treasure because she speaks their language. What a pretty price someone will pay to break this _thrall_ of her willfulness. But perhaps he will keep her for himself, instead. The savages cheer on their master with bawdy outbursts delineating the best ways to cure her of her obstinacy. Her stomach churns in vinegary horror, but she will not be cowed. The chief smiles. Look at that _fire_, he says.

He retrieves the discarded clothing and tosses it at her. "You wear this, _Þrællinn_. Now."

Jane's decision is simple. Obey or succumb to the elements—or worse. She obeys, hating the tremor in her hands as she pulls the linen underdress over her head. The woolen gown is a greater challenge; she cannot work out how to affix the straps to the bodice. Impatient, the chief uses the broaches to secure the unruly scraps of fabric. He ties the leather band about her waist in the same indelicate manner and pushes her back when he's finished.

"Behave." He glowers at her, certain death written in his verdant eyes should she rebel against his command.

She will give her life to protect her maidenhood; she has no doubt it will come to that eventually, but not yet. And so she lowers herself to the deck with the other captives. The chief grumbles in approval and returns to readying the ship.

Erik, Jane learns, is not among the huddled group. She prays he is in another boat. Safe and dry.

**0OoO0 0OoO0 0OoO0**

They sail for two days before making landfall. Sea water sprays over the low sides of the ship, keeping both conquerors and prisoners soggy for the journey, and Jane wonders why the Norseman bothered to have her change out of her shift. The only warmth to be had is in nestling with her fellow hostages. The sailors, of course, are wholly unaffected by the incessant wet and cold.

Demon spawn, one of the girls whispers after the chief produces a crystal at the setting of the sun. Jane is inclined to agree, though she does not voice it. Instead, she watches with fascination as he uses the crystal to pilot the ship in darkened waters. She was reared to eschew all magic as the workings of the devil (nevermind that Our Lord Son of Mary performed miracles which defy understanding), but she wonders if it is unholy magic behind this odd navigation, or is there a more rational explanation?

Erik has warned her of her overzealous curiosity, but she embraces it—even if she must dam a dozen questions behind the tight press of her lips. Speculating over the logistics of that unusual crystal is far less terrifying than ruminating over her future prospects of servitude and further indignities.

The sail is taken down, and the Norsemen man the oars, working in shifts to guide the ship closer to their destination. Lulled by the rhythmic creak of wood and splash of oars against the sea, Jane falls asleep and dreams of a tall man in black leather. He holds a star, gleaming with white, pulsing rays. _Do you want it? _he asks. _Take it_. She shakes her head. He grins. _I do so love a challenge_. The star flies from his hand toward her, into her and—

—Jane sits up, clasping her chest as she sucks in a gasp. The sky is colored with the oranges and violets of dawn, and the sail billows with wind currents. A Norseman stands over her, affords her a bare glance before shaking another of the prisoners awake. Another follows, grasping her jaw with calloused fingers and pouring a drink into her mouth. She nearly chokes on the vile mead, but she swallows it down—desperate to quench her scorching thirst. He presses a heel of stale bread into her hand and moves onto the next villager.

One does not wake, however. A frail girl a year or so younger than Jane with cracked colorless lips. The two Norseman lift her body, locked with her knees still drawn up against her chest, and throw her into the sea. What little appetite Jane had is chased away, more from her disgraceful relief that it is another who has perished and not her. Compassion has too quickly fled in these dire circumstances. How long until she is as savage as her wardens?

The morning passes with Norseman recounting their exploits to one another with laughter and prisoners crowded together, some silently weeping. As the sun reaches its zenith, the stories change from battles and violence to tales of their heathen gods. Jane listens with piqued interest. Though Erik has taught her his native tongue, he refused to tell her more of his people and their beliefs. False deities had no place in her instruction, he said.

There is Odin, the Traveler, the All-Father, she learns now—who gave one of his eyes to seek wisdom. And his two sons: Thor who wields lightning and thunder with a great hammer and Loki, mischief maker, silver-tongued deceiver. The Norsemen speak of Thor, at Loki's encouragement, pretending to be a bride to reclaim his stolen hammer from the Jötnar king. They speak of Loki stealing in the night to cut off the warrior goddess Sif's golden tresses to repay her insults of him and how her shining locks returned black—like his.

The air becomes acrid in Jane's lungs, and without forethought, she poses a question in halting Scandinavian: what does he look like?

Cheery banter stills into heavy silence as her query is met with furrowed stares. Has she blasphemed somehow? No, the expressions her captors wear are not of offense, but surprise. One waves a hand, muttering about the danger of invoking Loki's regard by speaking of him directly. That small irrational bit of her believes his warning comes too late, but she pays the foolish thought as much heed as the others pay their companion.

Loki's hair, a man begins, is as black as the starless night sky. But his skin, another interjects, is pale as the moon. Eyes like glass, full of playful trickery. His smile, though, is his most beautiful and terrible feature. For if he smiles upon you, the Norsemen explain, then you are marked for a life of endless woe.

Jane's throat swells with a resurgence of dread as she asks a final question. Is he tall?

Of course, comes the answer. All of the Æsir are. He is not so broadly built as Thor, but he is of the same height and a skilled warrior in his own right. A master of knives, one says. And sorcery, adds another.

They continue to expound on his attritubes, returning once more to tales of his mischief, but Jane has stopped listening. She recalls that smile on the muddy banks of the sea, when she returned his curious gaze with a baleful glare, and again after he whispered to the chief—the same smile stretching his mouth in her dream. That cannot be Loki, she reasons. The deities worshiped by these barbarians are not real. There is only one god, and Jane is even uncertain about him. Chills prickle up her spine despite her sound logic.

The sail is tied down again, oars in the water as land comes into view—the Orkneys if Jane's calculations are accurate. The settlement has a proper port with planked docks, laden with loved ones shouting joyful welcome to their heroes. They seem so ordinary, so _civilized_ that Jane nearly forgets for a moment the brutality these men met against her society. She is sick with the understanding that these savages could love wives and children no differently than her people do.

Her hands are bound once more, tied to a length of rope joining all the prisoners, before they are led onto the docks. She searches for Erik among the mass exiting the other ships, but there are too many blocking her view. The image of the dead girl, tossed into the sea as nothing more than refuse, bleeds into her worried thoughts, and she silently pleads with the Lord and Savior that her mentor did not suffer the same fate.

It is a cacophony of noise and chaos as families are reunited. Delighted squeals. Bone-jarring embraces. Little ones scrambling underfoot. Unwelcome fingers poke and pinch Jane as she and the captives are yanked through the throng. She ignores the abuse with gritted teeth. She ignores, too, the claims being laid already on the various thralls, and the rebuttals that most will be taken to Scandinavia for auction.

A leader, bejeweled and robed with furs, greets the returning conquerors with arms raised. He gives a brief speech about Odin's blessings and abundant spoils before directing everyone to a feast—one which the hostages are not invited to as they are dragged to a dilapidated shack little better than a byre. Dust kicks up from the dirt floor, along with the putrid scent of excrement and piss, as Norsemen shove their human bounty inside. A swig of bitter mead is offered along with more stale bread, the latter thrown at the prisoners with the same delicacy as a farmer shoveling slop into a pig trough. Too quickly, the door is shut and latched on the outside.

Jane does not join in the scramble for food, though her belly growls in complaint. She pushes into the group as best as she can while still tied to others, makes her way toward the tall, stooped figure on the other side of the room.

"Erik!" she cries, her legs wavering with acute relief.

He looks up at her, eyes bright with recognition. "Jane!" The smile drops from his lips as he takes in her changed attire. "Have they hurt you?"

"No," she answers. Not yet. She turns the question on him. His tunic is rumbled and stiff from saltwater spray, his skin pale and shadowed.

He shakes his head but any further conversation is interrupted by the door banging open again. The prisoners shrink against the walls, dragging Jane and Erik with them, as the village leader steps inside with the chief in tow.

Where are these thralls who speak our language, the leader asks in his melodic tongue.

The chief points to Jane and Erik, and the leader takes their measure with a narrow-eyed stare. You are no Saxon, he says to Erik. A Norseman—or was once. Erik offers no argument, though he steps closer to Jane as the leader smiles at her. You, he says, _are_ a Saxon. How curious. He crooks a finger at her.

I like this one.

The chief slices the rope tying her to the other captives and grasps her arm.

"Wait! No!" she shouts. "He comes, too!" She repeats her demand in Norse.

The leader lets out an exasperated sigh. "Very well," he says in her language, and then makes a rude comment about her contrary nature in his.

The chief guides them out of the building and through the village, following the trail of the leader. They are taken to a house, more grand than the others Jane can see, though still modest for a minor lord. Inside the air is perfumed, and rugs cover a slatted wood floor. The leader motions for Jane and Erik to sit on a cushioned bench while he eases himself into one of the pair of ornate chairs on the opposite side. He waves off the chief. Go, he says. Feast with your brothers.

When they are alone, the leader turns his gaze on Jane, studies her with smile both familiar and unsettling. "What is your name?" he asks in flawless Saxon.

"What is yours?" she returns, unwilling to acquiesce to even the simplest of his demands.

The smile grows wider, amusement glimmering in his eyes. _Eyes like glass, full of playful trickery_. "I suspect, _Þrællinn_, you know that already."

_Master of sorcery._

No. _No._ "Loki is not real," she says, hands clenched as though they could give more power to her denial.

He raises a brow. "Am I not?" With a flicker of green light, the image of village leader melts, giving way to the polished nobleman. Ever smiling. Damning her, if the stories are true. Beside her, Erik curses under his breath, color bleaching from his face.

Loki leans forward with the creak of his leather armor. "Your name? Or will you defy even a god?"

"Not my god," she answers thoughtlessly.

"There are no other gods who will save you," he says. (Will he never stop smiling?) "They are deaf to your pleas. But I—" he places a slender hand against his chest, "—am feeling rather generous at this time. Do take advantage of it, girl. I am told I have a changeable nature."

"Take nothing from him," Erik admonishes. "The cost will be too great."

Loki clucks his tongue. "You are speaking out of turn, old man. Remain silent or I will sew that impudent mouth shut. It is an experience you will want to avoid, believe you me." To Jane, he says, "Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Your name." The smile is finally gone, unraveled by growing impatience. She is treading in dangerous waters now.

"Jane."

"Jane," he repeats, rolling each letter over his tongue. "Such a plain name for such a fascinating girl." He settles back into his chair and rubs a finger across his lip. "Tell me, Jane, how desperately do you want your freedom?"

"Only a fool would wish to remain a slave," she says. She will not beg. Not for the Norsemen, and not for their deity.

"But all masters are not created equally," he counters. "Would you rather one who worked you hard from morning till eve, and then slipped into your bed each night to take what he wanted with no care for your own desires? Or one who showed you the wonders of Yggdrasil—the flames of Muspelheim, the lush foliage of Alfheim, the gilded halls of the Realm Eternal, and so much more—for merely that which you freely chose to offer in return?"

Jane has no knowledge of the lands he described, but how insidiously tempting his offer seems. But he is the deceiver from the brief tales she heard. "Neither." When he appears to scoff at her answer, she adds, "You asked if I wanted my freedom, and I tell you plainly that I do."

He nods. "Oh, you are very clever. More so than I anticipated." The smile has returned. "Allow me to be plain, then. The freedom I extend is from one master or another. Do not believe for a single breath that I went through all the trouble of bringing you here solely to send you back to your pathetic little village at your behest. Choose me, and you are free from my pet Vikings. Choose them, and you are free of the only god who has any interest in your plight."

"A plight you admit you fabricated!" she snaps back at him, forgetting that he is likely far more lethal than her Norseman captors. "How am I to know whether you will sew more such plights in the future as it suits your whims?"

"But that is the thrill of your choice, dear Jane." He is animated by their debate, gesturing with his hands as he speaks. "Who do you trust with your life? The Vikings who slaughter and pillage, and yes, even at times, rape. Or the God of Mischief and Lies? Perhaps the Norsemen will treat you with greater dignity than I have described. Perhaps I am far more reprehensible than I seem. With which party do you make your gambit?"

Jane glances at Erik, anxious for any wisdom from her beloved mentor, but his brows are pinched with fear and helplessness.

"I will tell you one secret—only one—to help facilitate your decision," Loki says. "The Vikings say that my smile is an omen of lifelong misfortune, but it is only half true. My smile can also mean adventure for those whom I like, and I like so very few." He leans forward, pinning her with a gaze so intense she can feel it pressing into her. "I like you, Jane."

Her stomach comes alive in a frenetic dance, wholly different from the sickly churn which has pervaded her much of the last two days. She believes him—that he likes her—though she does not trust the rest of his words.

But he _likes_ her, and that is enough to tip the scale.

"If I chose you," she begins, voice quavering, "Erik comes as well."

Loki exhales with a frown. "That will not do at all. I only brought him along to this gathering so that you would be more amenable to hearing me out. I am quite fixed on this point."

She is panicked with indecision, for she believes—she _hopes_—her lot is better thrown in with Loki, and yet, she cannot leave Erik to be sold away into bondage. "Then will you give him his freedom—return him home?"

"I might be prevailed upon to perform this charitable act," Loki says, tapping a finger against his chin, "for the trifling price of a kiss."

She has no desire to grant his request, in spite of the tingles storming across her flesh like a thunderbolt, but Erik's safety takes precedence over her wishes. She rises from her chair without a word, as though a verbal assent will somehow give this submission permanence. Loki grins as she stands before him with bound hands outstretched, not pleading but demanding he give her this courtesy. He brushes a fingertip against the cords, and they drop the floor in a coil. Her heart careens against her ribcage like a frantic warning drum. He does not draw her to him, but waits, smiling that terrible smile.

He is giving her a semblance of free will. He will not forcibly take what he wants, but he will arrange matters so her best choice is to give him what he desires. If she were as silly as the other girls in her village, she would never see the strings he uses to guide her along. This understanding of the depth of his cunning makes her no less entrapped, but if she studies his ways, perhaps someday she will discover a flaw in his guile—one which will lead to her escape.

But first, she must kiss him.

This is where all logic flees her, and anxiety grips every sinew in her body with both fire and ice. Because she is still a girl, barely across the threshold of womanhood. A maiden who has never fallen love and must now barter with these intimacies as though they are coin at the market.

She leans forward, and just before her lips meet his, her courage falters. She instead places a kiss at the line of his smooth jaw.

He lets out a soft laugh. "Jane, Jane, Jane," he reproves. "You must _convince_ me to be magnanimous. Give me a taste of that mortal defiance searing through your veins."

There it is—the dare again. And just as before, it vanquishes her fears, turns her resolve into immutable stone. She leans forward again, presses her mouth over his, and perseveres through every instinct retreat. He returns the kiss, gently at first, then with a growing hunger that very nearly turns her bones to ash. His hand finds purchase in her hair, fingers twining in her snarled locks as he pulls her closer. She gasps against his lips, and he seizes the opportunity to savor her mortal defiance, as he called it. She is floating and drowning all at once, and somehow she wants more. Her lungs burn in protest, but she cannot stop.

But Loki does. He breaks away from her, not panting and flushed as she is, but also not entirely unaffected. He stares at her mouth, traces a line across her lips as though regretting his decision to end their interlude. "I am convinced," he murmurs, bringing his gaze to meet hers. "Say your goodbyes."

As though released from a spell, she dashes to her mentor who stands beside the bench, hollow-eyed. "Oh, Jane," Erik says in a broken voice. "What have you done? I would have begged them to keep us together. We could have bargained with our skills for a better placement."

She looks up at him through tears and caresses his cheek; she wants this separation no more than he does. "This is the better placement. You cannot understand because you are a man. He will allow me to choose when I sell my virtue. If we remain, they will not give me the same privilege." She leaves unsaid that the idea of lying with Loki is far less distasteful than before.

Erik begins his argument anew. "Jane—"

"No," she says. "It is done."

His head drops in defeat. "I have tried to protect you, but I have cursed you instead. I am sorry, Jane."

She frowns at his implication that he is somehow the impetus for all of their troubles. "This is not your doing," she reassures him.

He shakes his head. "No, you must understand—"

"All of this has become terribly dull," Loki interjects, rising from his throne-like chair. "Enough of your blubbering. The time is past for you to return home, old man."

He frees Erik of his bonds with a cursory flick of magic. "Do give your brothers my regards," he says. "Fortunately for you, most of them are dead."

In a flash of emerald, Erik is gone, leaving a void within Jane's chest as empty as the spot he occupied seconds before. Her grief is cut short when she fully hears Loki's parting words. "Brothers?" she asks, whirling to face the god who has both saved and ensnared her. "Where have you sent him?"

"Home, as you asked." Loki's grin turns feral. "Though it was very unwise of you not to specify which home. I am afraid I could not resist making my vengeance complete."

"Vengeance? Against Erik?" But that makes no sense.

"Oh, yes," Loki replies. "Long ago your beloved mentor made a bargain with me. I gave him what he wanted, but when it was time to pay his debt, he fled. It amused me to let him believe he had thwarted a god, but in the end I will always come for what is owed me."

He grasps her chin, forces her to look up at him. "You, however, were a pleasant surprise." His tone is reverent, hinting of desires which reignite the unwanted flutters in her middle. "I had thought to tame you—and not so unimaginatively as your Viking captors would have done—but I do so enjoy your willful rebellion, clever girl."

His laughter is dry and clipped. "You and I will play a game, dear Jane. You will try to escape from my dastardly clutches as we travel the branches of Yggdrasil—and do make certain your attempts are as crafty as I know that scheming little mind of yours is capable of being. And I, whilst circumventing your designs—" he caresses her lips with the tip of his thumb, "—will persuade you to kiss me and more despite your abject hatred of me."

Her hand flies of its own accord, slapping him across the face. Much to her displeasure, the blow has no effect. She strikes at him again, but he deftly catches her wrist before her palm makes contact.

"This," he says, stretching each word between his tongue and pearlescent teeth, "is going to be rather fun. Shall we begin, then?"

She wants to call him wicked, evil, repugnant, vile—but to what end? Her choice is made, the deal is set, and while she loathes him with every fiber in her being, he still offers her a _chance_ of escape.

She scrubs at the wetness on her cheeks and raises her chin. "Let's."

**~FIN~**

* * *

**A/N:** Yes, that is the end. Yes, the story is complete. Yes, I am a mean, mean, horrible person. (I'm sorry!)

_Translations:_

Hún er nógu gömul. = She is old enough.  
Nei! Vinsamlegast! Ég mun gera allt! Ekki snerta stelpu! = No! Please! I will do anything! Do not touch the girl!  
Taka hann líka. = Take him too.  
Þora ekki snerta mig! = Dare not to touch me!  
Þrællinn = thrall (This is what vikings called slaves.)


End file.
